


when the world becomes you

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Based on IV of Spades’ Mundo, Camping, Comfort, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentioned Karl Jacobs, Mentioned Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips, Some Humor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29956356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: a series of interconnected drabbles: something about a long way to go on the roadtrip, late nights, cold drinks, ocean blues, campfires. there’s also something about a question with its answer, and how the world becomeshim[the dnf roadtrip au, but it’s a 5 + 1. or:mundo’y magiging ikaw.]
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52
Collections: Anonymous





	when the world becomes you

**Author's Note:**

> the only complete dnf fic i will ever probably write and post. man. no relation to dream’s song just in case someone sees roadtrip au and goes “what the fuck.”
> 
> other than that, i’m promptly tired of brewing this plot in my head and holding this hostage for a whole ass week and more, so. hope you enjoy :]!

**1\. where will the words we say reach?**

There’s a comfortable lull in the steady rhythm of the car’s engine when he props his head on the frosty window. With the radio set to the lowest possible setting, it drones on like white noise in the background. It’s monotonous and boring.

It’s almost enough to convince him to go to sleep.

The fact that _it’s the middle of the night_ and _they’re all alone on this never-ending highway_ doesn’t help. There’s not much he can do other than stare out into the dark sky and see the dim lights reflect across signs as they speed by.

Dream doesn’t know where they are, but he trusts George (and more importantly, the GPS) to get where they should be. He’s only awake as barely-present company, but he’s clearly not doing a good job at it since all verbal conversations had ceased the moment they crossed the _2 AM_ mark — when every word was too heavy to say and the light-hearted atmosphere quickly wore down into tense silence.

But he’s still awake, and _that should count for something, right?_

He frowns and leans forward. A beat passes between them.

“You missed the exit,” Dream quietly points out.

If he looked, he would’ve seen George’s grip tighten on the steering wheel. If he looked closer, he would’ve seen his fingers twitching and the harsh, stubborn line of his mouth grow stark against the soft glow of the ceiling lamp.

”Yeah,” The other responds just as quietly, but there’s a steady _something_ in his voice that refused to wobble or shake. He has his glasses on — the one that made differentiating between yellows and greens and browns and reds easier. Dream can’t see anything behind the tinted shades. “I wanted to go somewhere further out.”

( _“Where do you want to go?” Dream had softly asked, when he held his phone close to his ear in the young and empty night. He didn’t hesitate when he picked it up after it distracted him from mindlessly scrolling through Twitter._

 _”Somewhere far away — somewhere far enough. I don’t know,” George had admitted, low and frenzied and_ real _, when he hesitantly asked Dream to run away with him — from everything._

_Like he was expecting him to say no._

_The night had seemed young, but everything else was heavy when he threw his stuff haphazardly into a duffel bag and with his phone still in his hand, he listened outside when George had told him._

_“I just don’t know.”_ )

They sit in silence for a while as the car almost rocks him to sleep, the steady humming intertwining with the mellow melody playing on the radio.

”Do you regret coming with me?” George quietly asks him, doubtful and low, yet loud enough to break the fragile silence. He can barely hear it over the sounds that echo in Dream’s ears and over the hazy cloud of sleep that settles in his head.

If he looked, he would’ve seen everything from that call mirrored now.

He doesn’t need to look to know it.

Well, he doesn’t. Dream knows that much. He thinks and he knows that nothing on this world will make him regret anything about George, whose voice haunts him everywhere. He hears George loud and clear as the name tangles with the heartbeat in his ears. He can bring every single song he loves everywhere he wants to, but nothing will ever be as sweet or as real as the melody in George’s voice.

( _Sometimes in the late nights, he’s all Dream can hear. On those nights, he stays wide awake and listens until George’s voice drowns out everything else._

 _On those nights, he listens until George is the only thing the world can echo._ )

Dream blindly reaches out until his fingers settle over the brunette’s own on top of the handbrakes, and waits until the other intertwines their fingers together, slow and hesitant. When their palms meet and their fingers touch knuckles, he squeezes once briefly in reassurance.

”The only thing I regret here is the stupid radio station. And their songs,” The blond sleepily adds, adjusting his seat so he can lean back more comfortably — not letting go of their unspoken handholding. “ _Hallelujah?_ During our midnight road trip? _Really?_ ”

A quiet laugh bubbles out of George’s lips, sweet and melodious, like the thin melody of a piano playing and like the clear blue water that bubbles down the brook - and Dream smiles too. “Fine,” he says as the blond turns to look at him. “I’ll let you play your stupid Spotify playlist. I can’t believe you pay premium just for this kind of thing.”

Dream beams with the only kind of dopiness one hopes to achieve while being half-asleep as he connects his phone to the car’s radio system, briefly untangling his hand to plug the cord in.

”We’ve got a long way to go,” George reminds him after a while as Dream fully leans his seat back and their hands slot into each others’ palms again. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that it’s only them in the world — while the softer beat echoes in their own small bubble of peace.   
  


( _Don’t fall asleep on me_ is one of the last things he remembers hearing, because despite his best efforts, Dream still falls asleep. George doesn’t wake him up, though. He lets him sleep as the darkness bled into light and the rest of the early morning passes, with nothing but a mellow tune drumming on his heartbeat.)

* * *

  
**  
2\. sugar honey iced tea**

“This is an American dish.”

”Yes,” Dream says evenly, staring back at George.

”An American dish,” George repeats, poking the freshly-made fries on his plate. Dream doesn’t know what’s the commotion all about, and why the brunette is poking it with a fork. “So when you said American dish, you meant diner food?”

Dream shrugs. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he reminds the brunette, picking a few fries off their shared plate and popping it into his mouth. “Can’t exactly whip out a five-star meal in here. Also, diner food is _iconic._ ”

”Americans,” George rolls his eyes as he picks up a fry and scrutinizes it between his fingers with a frown. “What do you mean this is a _fry_? This is clearly a _chip_.”

Dream only snickers in response as their server approaches, and settles down a pitcher of amber liquid on their table. He watches as the server leaves and George blankly stares at their surprise drink before he realizes what it is, blanches, and continues staring.

In horror.

“C’mon,” Dream teases, pushing it a little towards the Briton. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

George avoids eye contact with the pitcher of fresh iced tea, complete with the lemon slices, ice cubes and a drizzle of honey, just like how he requested it — and looks down at the floor like the sitting drink would go away if he ignored it. “Listen, I don’t drink tea a lot,” he winces. “But this is... _slander_. You just don’t put _ice_ with _powdered tea_ and call it _iced tea_. Lipton is _not_ proper iced tea.”

The blond wheezes, plain and simple. “This is just you being dramatic now,” he snickers, after they both receive weird stares while George glared at him, and after he calms down. Dream takes the two plastic glasses laid out for them and starts to slowly pour the iced tea into it — drawn out and dramatic as the brunette makes a face at him. He ends up shoving one glass towards the brunette. “Come on, George. Just give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?”

George gingerly picks the glass up after some prodding, like he’s touching poison or something. Dream forces himself to not laugh again as he looks at the brunette across from behind the glass, and starts to drink.

He doesn’t even like the overwhelming sugary-sweetness of the tea, even when it blends well with the lemon and the honey — he’s only drinking it in solidarity of his friend, who needed to be peer-pressured into drinking iced tea. Dream barely resists a grimace at it, but he manages a straight face when he downs the amber liquid that almost makes his teeth ache from the amount of liquid diabetes going down his gullet.

Oh, the honey did _not_ help. Lemon didn’t either. He swallows it, anyways. 

The Briton doesn’t fare as well as he did. George takes one sip and it takes him five seconds to go through all stages of grief, except he loops back to depression as he splutters and desperately waves a concerned server over. 

Dream just watches, finishing his own glass as the server fetches both of them a pitcher of water instead. There’s some sort of aftertaste in his mouth, and _okay_ , maybe the honey and lemon did help.

”Never again,” George says, grimacing at the disgustingly-sweet aftertaste left in his mouth. Or whatever it is. Dream can’t decide what even that aftertaste tasted like. “I’m never trusting anybody who hands me Lipton’s iced tea. I’ll stick to my chips, _thank you very much_.”

The blond good-naturedly shrugs as they silently agree to leave George’s glass untouched by the far corner of the table, and Dream pushes the plate of fries towards him.

They stay there for longer while waiting for the burger Dream ordered as the ice cubes in his glass melt and he swigs the slush around. There’s still a very distinct aftertaste mingling with sugar and honey — it’s now _bitter, what the hell_ — in the back of his throat, and based on the brunette’s muttered commentary while stabbing the hell out of the fries with a fork — it’s something about instant powdered tea tasting like _shit_ and _nothing will be as good as tea from home._

 _Home_. The blond frowns a little at the mention. Despite all the sugar, the iced tea still manages to leave a bitter taste on his tongue. No amount of sugary sweetness will ever mask the bitterness, but everybody can try.

“I kind of regret coming here,” George offhandedly mentions, watching the ice fog up the cheap plastic container of melted iced tea, his shoulders tensing up. The server stops by to drop off Dream’s order, and cater to other people — leaving them to themselves. “Do you?”

There’s a hidden question there somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. Dream knows the answer, because the words are quiet yet he knows it loud and clear in his own heart.

”Nope,” he answers without hesitation, still tasting the tang of lemon and honey in the back of his mouth. He chooses to bite into his burger anyways, because traveling is surprisingly tiring. “But if this diner’s not up to your taste, we can go catch some ice cream later.”

“That’s good to hear. And — if you get vanilla, _I swear to God,_ — I’ll never trust you again.”

Dream only smiles at him serenely, choosing to bite again into his burger as a response.

The brunette just rolls his eyes. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t go away fast, but it does gradually lessen until George is fully slumped against the diner chair’s backrest, waiting for Dream to finish up.

(Later, he gets vanilla ice cream with nothing else just to spite George, much to the Briton’s immediate horror as Dream makes a big show of biting into it like some kind of heathen. Later, he playfully asks George if he ever regretted making Dream come with him, and he echoes back his own answer of never. 

Later, he’ll ask Dream that question again, and Dream will answer the same way, because that’s the only answer he’ll keep giving.) 

* * *

**3\. ignore the ocean’s breeze**

The smell of the salty ocean breeze hits his nose first before he even sees it.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Dream asks as he sticks his head out the open window to look for a good spot in the _Middle of Nowhere, USA_. Dispersed camping, or something like that. He would’ve preferred camping at a designated campground because he’s the first to admit that he is a weak link, but George only unimpressively blinked at the nearest campsite as they drove past, and led them further into the forest.

”I’m sure,” George shrugs in the passenger seat. He looks more exhausted than the blond, and Dream’s been driving for longer. Maybe it’s the reason why he didn’t question or fight George on his choice of a campsite, or a lack of thereof. “I think we just need to go deeper into the woods.”

The robotic voice of the car navigation system directs them further into the heart of the forest until the foliage of the taller trees almost steal all the sunlight from them and the dirt road ends, with no good open spot in sight.

George huffs when he recognizes defeat, and leans back in his seat. Dream closes the windows before any insects can attempt to come in — if they haven’t already yet — and puts the car in reverse.

“I don’t understand,” the other says quietly, with tired eyes and disappointment in his frown. The sun’s closer to night rather than day, and logically, Dream understands him. It’s a bad time to be in the forest during sundown without a clear camping spot in sight, and they’ve driven a long way for this. 

But it isn’t about the camping spot itself, and Dream knows that much. He just doesn’t know more than that and he doesn’t like assuming, so he simply keeps his mouth shut. 

They pull out of there in silence as the sun touches the horizon and dips into somewhere else in space and they remain in another strained silence that Dream wants to wave away and make it right, but he’s got no clue on how to. It’s quiet until the GPS points out a different route, a quicker path towards George’s vague answer of a _somewhere_ that Dream tries his hardest to look for — and it’s quiet until they emerge out of the forest and find a narrow, lonely road slithering around the coastline.

 _Ah_. So that was where the ocean breeze was from.

It fills his lungs with salt-packed air fast enough that he almost gets whiplash from the difference of the forest and the sea — whiplash from almost imagining how _home_ could be just here.

The only difference is that it’s silent, but at least there’s open skies, the ocean, and the occasional cry of a passing bird. The air’s cleaner and fresher too. It’s a lot less constrictive than the overwhelming darkness of the forest, so for him — it’s a win. 

He drives along the road until the beach stretches out far enough that they could oversee the point where forest met the shore, and they cruise along it until Dream spots an open grove of trees nearby with plenty of space. It’s when Dream drives over the side of the road, much to George’s sudden confusion. He parks, making sure that he’s not blocking the way.

Dream waits, rolling down his window. The ocean breeze _was_ strong today, tousling his hair and forcing him to breathe in the scent of the sea. It’s almost exactly like home.

“I’m sorry,” is all George says in that moment, who doesn’t look at him. He carefully rolls down his own window, taking his time as they both get bombarded by brief little mists of brine. “I know you don’t like wasting time. And you don’t like beaches either.”

The blond blinks. “It wasn’t a waste of time,” he faintly replies, as truthfully as he can. “And I don’t mind beaches a lot.” 

George hums, not convinced, while the other turns off the engine. Both of them don’t really need the AC anymore, now that the wind blows coldly at them. Maybe he has to raise his window by a smudge when the ocean breeze lightly stings his eyes, but he still has to admit that it’s nice. 

It smells like memories from somewhere far away, wafted along by the breeze that carries it all to him everywhere he went.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Dream brings up after a while, when the sky is dark. The waves crash on the sand and ebb away while the last rays of sunlight reach through hazy clouds that blend in the night. “And I hope you know my answer.”

In the corner of his eye, George goes rigid. His fingers tapping on the windshield go still, and his expression goes blank. His mouth opens, and closes as he stays silent, jaw tensing.

Maybe the ocean breeze was a lot more heavier than he remembered experiencing, because there’s a thick and tense atmosphere that settles on both of them and all he can smell is nothing but fresh ocean salt that made his gut churn when George doesn’t ask him the question. 

Dream answers anyways. “I don’t think I’ll ever regret anything,” he says softly. But he says it as firmly as he can express, as honest and real as he can — because how could he regret anything in this world when he’s with him? “Especially if it’s anything with you.”

  
****

* * *

**  
4\. if you look up and see the stars**

They manage to get a campfire running in their impromptu campsite well into the night, partially hidden away by the grove of trees and a good distance away from the shore.

George’s the first to admit that it took them a while to get where they are now, and Dream’s the one in the background who will aggressively agree, because when they unpacked everything they needed from the car and walked out towards the grove, he texted Sapnap first on advice on how to start a fire, who responded with a _why are you committing arson_. And after a brief moment: _where are you_ and _what the fuck are you doing in the middle of buttfuck-nowhere, usa_. It wasn’t much help either when the Texan had demanded a call to check if they were alright because _what are you two fucks thinking_ and all three of them had been scrambled into a panic until Sapnap had the bright idea to add Karl into the call.

Karl groggily answered the call after about three desperate tries, joined in the middle of a fond bitching fight between George and Sapnap — and got filled in by a very amused Dream. It was fun while it lasted; Karl gave them a barely-coherent step-by-step guide to building a fire pit according to that _one video he did with Mr. Beast about Boy Scouts_ or something while Sapnap provided commentary in the background — and then George slapped his forehead and started mumbling about how he remembered he had matches somewhere in the car.

Dream, who was miserably failing at starting a flame in their fire pit, had fallen silent as George bolted for the car, and the two other idiots on call laughed at him and his hardships.

So when Dream’s phone battery went out and George’s phone couldn’t get a signal? They shrug, and they make a silent agreement to call back later in the morning. They _did_ already have a fire going, so. 

The blond attentively watches over the campfire as it steadily grew big enough to glow with a light that engulfed mostly everything in their own little bubble with a blanket of warm oranges and yellows — a light that made him feel safe in the smiles and jokes they share between small moments.

It was magical in the way it danced like the gleaming of the starlight above them in the clear night sky. He would’ve liked to reach out and gently cradle it in the palms of his hands if he could, without burning himself — watching the light trail and feeling this fuzzy heat curl in his gut.

”I’m sorry for the questions,” George suddenly says, prodding the fire with a twig before tossing it in. They both watch as sparks leap and go out. “I didn’t mean to corner you every single time with those. I just... wanted to hear your answer, I guess. I didn’t want to force you here with me if you don’t want to.”

The blond blinks at him.

They’re both tired, but he remembers the glint of light off George’s tinted glasses and the dull gleam of plastic under harsh, bright diner lights. He remembers a phone call, steady hands on a steering wheel and fingers that lightly rested on his own, ready to leap away in a moment’s notice.

“I don’t regret anything about this,” he whispers softly as dim light washes over them. “You didn’t force me to be here with you. I’m here on my own accord, and I’m here for as long as you need me — for as long as you want me to stay. And I want you to know that, so keep asking me your questions — because I’ll always give you the same answer. I’ll do it for as long as you want me to say it.”

They sit there for a while, when the sky moves and the stars twinkle. It’s darker than he remembers the night sky being, but there is the firelight and moonlight that trickles in like magic wafting through the air.

Dream pokes the fire with his own stick, and slowly feeds it into the flames. “Can I ask you something, though?”

“Fair enough,” George shrugs as he sits back. He looks like he’s bracing for something painful about to happen, head tilted up at the sky. “Sure.”

The fire crackles.

 _Do you regret letting me come along?_ is the question Dream really wants to ask, but he thinks it’s a little too charged, much like adding gasoline into a fire waiting to leap away in panic — and settles for something else.

”Do you regret any of this?” He questions him.

“No,” the brunette immediately says, looking back at him. George’s eyes soften, but his answer is as solid as unyielding stone, and it’s all he could do to stop his heartbeat from stuttering. “Of course not.”

His breath catches and trips as the other’s lips curve into a small affectionate smile. “Sure, I may have disliked some things on the way, like the _getting lost_ thing or the iced tea,” he faintly adds, watching as the corners of the blond’s mouth lift to match, both grins warm and fond in their own way. “But all of that led here — and I don’t think there’s any better place I’d rather be with you.”

”...I’m sure you definitely would’ve liked this better if your tent had a built-in bed, or something.” 

George scoffs, reaching over to swat Dream’s shoulder. “ _Listen_. I’m trying to be sentimental here. Let me have my moment.”

The blond chuckles for a while as he avoids the brunette, nowhere near his infamous kettle laugh — but it’s still something light-hearted, a laugh that gets carried to the heavens on the wispy trail of smoke from their fire. “Okay,” he says once he stops laughing. “But you’re not wrong. This place _is_ beautiful.”

George looks up again, with that smile. A smile like the sun’s hopeful rays peeking out from behind cotton candy clouds. “Yeah,” he says, fond yet distant in the way that the sparks of their fire were far from the stars that twinkle above, but both light up with the same sense of clarity and of magic. “It’s not like the city nights. The stars aren’t muddled — they’re out tonight.”

Then he looks back at Dream, who feels like he had swallowed fire with the way warmth floods and seeps into his pores, lighting up his veins from the inside. “It’s the magic of wonder. They _are_ beautiful.”

(When George goes back to stargazing, Dream’s eyes never leave him. He traces George’s profile lit by all the light from the sky and from their fire, and stares at the clean curve of his jaw and the intimately soft curl of his lips against the stark darkness.

“Yeah,” he distantly echoes when the smoke of their firepit curls towards the sea of the night and all he can think about is how George looks beautiful — in every sense possible, yet so human and so _real_.

 _Not as half as pretty as you_ is a cheesy old phrase that doesn’t need to be said, but when George looks back at him with that smile that’s for him and only _him_ — Dream knows that George heard it all the same.)

* * *

  
  
**5\. hold on and we won’t disappear**

“Dream.”

He only half-hums in reply. Through the haze that is sleep, he’s wondering how George managed to unzip the entrance of his tent and crawled right in.

There’s a little bit of rustling, and it’s enough to keep Dream still out for the count, but awake enough to half-process things.

“I’m cold,” the brunette miserably complains. 

“Okay?” _And what is he supposed to do about that?_

Someone pokes at the exposed skin of his neck. He involuntarily shivers, and reaches up and to swat the offending hand off. 

Well, he tries to, because he suddenly remembers that he’s in a blanket burrito. Too much work for him to wiggle his arm out just to smack someone. He’ll settle for grumbling and ignoring the other.

“...You have two shirts on you,” Dream sleepily mutters as he continues to press his face against his pillow when it’s evident that George wouldn’t move. He hopes the other is having fun in the corner of the tent while he’s absently appreciating his pillow. It’s soft and comforting in contrast to his side suffering against the hard ground, because he’s not used to sleeping without a mattress underneath him. “Also, didn’t you steal my hoodie?”

“How did you know that?”

The blond accepts his fate and quietly huffs. He awkwardly turns to his side by flopping inside his little blanket burrito to look at George sitting by the corner of the tiny tent. He’s curled into a ball with knees tucked close to his chest, trying not to take up much space.

It’s a valiant effort that he appreciates, but his tent is still a little tent. Dream had to basically fold himself in half just so he didn’t kick his tent’s walls and mentally notes to buy a bigger one the next time they stumble into a city. It’s a tight fit for him — and a tighter fit for both of them. 

George waves at him. He’s wearing Dream’s hoodie.

“Made a nest underneath my blanket burrito. Yanked half of my thickest clothes and stuffed them underneath,” the blond yawns, focusing on wiggling his arms out of it long enough to pay attention to the brunette. “I was missing one hoodie.”

The other shrugs, and puts his hands up in the air in a sign of surrender.“Guilty,” he admits, picking on the edge of the huge sweatshirt. “To be fair, I didn’t really expect it to be this cold.” 

He’s halfway to freedom when he just decides to _screw it_ , and lets his carefully constructed blanket burrito fall apart as he groggily sits up, holding out his arms and waiting. George doesn’t do anything for a while, which surprises him a bit — given that he crawled into Dream’s tent for a hug. The brunette just stares at him. More specifically, his chest.

“What,” Dream asks.

George shakes his head, but goes back to staring at him with something he can’t quite read. “You’re wearing _the_ shirt.”

The blond doesn’t know where this is going. He has established that half of his warm clothes were under him and his blanket, so why does he look mystified about the shirt? “And…?”

George leans forward, close enough to brush foreheads, and taps his finger on Dream’s chest. 

Dream looks down on his shirt. In the middle of it is a huge print with an open heart-shaped compass, both sides involving a horribly-edited picture of _cat boy George_ and a _gogy my beloved._ Ah.

He picks at the neckline of it. It’s cotton. It’s soft against his skin, doesn’t suffocate him as much, and it’s comfortable. That’s the only reason why the gag gift lovingly sent in by Karl got tossed inside his bag without a second thought.

(Karl also sent him a notebook, a complete dinnerware set and shorts with the same print. Dream still wonders how Karl managed to get a _gogy my beloved_ print on the blade of a plastic knife, but the universe has its own surprises. He’s not going to bother asking.)

“Haha,” he says as dryly as he can, trying not to laugh while George breaks and cackles, because sometimes, the universe is a bitch. Weird coincidences and all that. “You’re really funny, George. Can you just lay down here with me? I really want to go to sleep.”

The brunette smiles at the blatant whining hidden underneath that dry tone, and snorts. He crawls his way next to Dream, or tries to. It really is a tight squeeze, with George’s constant laughing throwing him off balance against an uncoordinated Dream inside the tiny tent. 

It takes them a while to get comfortable too — a while after they rearrange limbs, almost come close to getting minor injuries when Dream almost elbows George in the chin and George almost kicks him in the stomach, and a while after they rearrange the entire nest of pillows and clothes for both of their comfort.

And surprisingly, it takes him even longer to settle back into sleep when the realization of how it’s _George_ in his hoodie that presses against his back, radiating warmth and sending a shiver up his spine; _George_ , whose nose is tucked in Dream’s neck and makes him want to bust into spontaneous giddy giggling; _George_ , who hesitantly drapes his arm over Dream’s torso, fingers brushing against the thin fabric of his shirt, asking for permission.

There’s a silent question there, too. Dream doesn’t know what it is until George finally speaks up.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” George whispers, his breath ghosting the shell of Dream’s ear. He shivers, despite all the warmth he feels with the brunette practically wrapped around him: the hoodie, two shirts and all that heavy protection against the cold. “You know that, right?”

Dream reaches for George’s hand resting on his hipbone, curling his fingers around them. He pulls the brunette closer until there’s almost no space between them other than their clothes and the sound of the night.

There’s nothing else he can hear above the sound of their breathing in sync — their chests rising and falling, and pulses beating.

With a voice as scratchy as stars in the roughly woven blanket of night, he whispers his answer to the air, not knowing if the other is still listening. “I won’t,” he softly mumbles. “I never have, and I don’t think I will.”

He stays wide awake when George’s grip tightens a final time in a reassuring squeeze, and loosens, their fingers still entwined — and that’s when he knows that the other has fallen asleep.

Him? Well, Dream’s still sleepy, but he can’t sleep. 

His eyes are still open, and there’s a steady rhythm in the tiny puffs of air that George breathes and tickles his ears. The material of the thick yet soft hoodie brushes against his hand as the oversized cloth slips over George’s wrist and falls over the other man’s knuckles.

The fabric is soft. It’s warm.

Dream goes to sleep, but even with the thin roof of his tent preventing him from seeing the sky, all he can think about is how it’s a beautiful night.

(Dream wakes up first after that terrible night’s sleep, and his first thought is that his side hurt like a _bitch_.

“Yeah,” George had said, wincing. Gathered around the newly lit fire, they boiled the last of their bottled water into a convenient pot he had found hiding in the bottom of the car’s trunk for their instant noodle breakfast. “When I told you that you were going to regret this in the morning, I literally meant it.”

The blond groaned, stretching. He tried to crack his neck the way Sapnap taught him, only for it to hurt even more like a spiteful motherfucker. “Well, maybe if you didn’t steal my goddamn pillow, my spine would feel better.”

George passes him his instant noodles. “Maybe if you didn’t roll us and trap my right arm underneath you, I wouldn’t have stolen the goddamn pillow.” The brunette pauses mid-way, and looks at him weirdly. “Why didn’t you just kick me out, then?”

He shrugs, wincing at the gesture because of his goddamn neck. “You know how the ends justify the means?” he off-handedly mentions as he watched the few embers die out — remembering that night, wrapped in cloth and warmth and an arm loosely thrown over his torso. “Well, in this case, it’s the means that justify the ends.”

George snorts, and snuffs the rest of the fire out, but Dream can still feel the phantom heat crawling up from his stomach. “I just hope the cuddle session justifies your fucked-up back.”)

* * *

  
  
**+1: mundo’y magiging ikaw (the world becomes you)**

They still remember they’ve got a long way to go when they switch sides, and George drives again.  
  
Everything seems clearer, somehow. After that night, it’s like the world came into focus — or maybe it’s because of the adrenaline rush that comes when they speed down smooth roads with the wind in their faces and the falling leaves on their backs.

There’s something about that rush that comes with facing new things instead of the familiar ones — and Dream _loves_ it. He understands George’s concept of a _somewhere_ a little better at the way the brunette blindly drives down the friendly highway that meets an unfamiliar exit with nothing but a stubborn gut feeling and the steadiness of the GPS.

From dirt roads and charming towns, it’s a hop and a skip to the next city they find — where lush greens faded into the background of harsh gray concrete and wood looked like ash against the bright neon lights that blinded him.

“Everything almost feels like a punch to the gut,” Dream complains as he dutifully follows George down the aisle in the nearest grocery store they find. He fiddles with a random pair of shades he picked up, and contemplates buying them for both the cool factor and because his head hurt staring at the bright lights. “I’ve been gone from the city for like _two days,_ and now I’ve gone blind because of damn lights.”

George, in his tinted shades that helped with colors and also probably bright light, serenely smiles at him, and dumps a blanket over Dream’s waiting arms. “Maybe don’t get into an intense staring contest with a lampshade next time?”

The blond scoffs, because while he’s got a point — it’s like the brunette didn’t almost get into a similar staring contest with their car’s headlight. “You are a hypocrite.”

The other shrugs, tapping the lenses of their shades. “Not really,” he says, with a slight laugh and a very fond grin. Dream doesn’t find it in himself to even get offended. “You’re just an idiot.”

* * *

  
Dream fulfills two more promises after that: which include calling back Karl and Sapnap, who apparently continued on talking after they left and fell asleep. On call. Together. _didn’t even notice you were gone lol_ gets typed into text with concern hidden under a layer of kissy faces and laughter as George exasperatedly calls Sapnap a dumbass — and everything starts looking up again.

The other is treating George to an actual restaurant that had actual American dishes, and as a pleasant surprise, they find that the restaurant serves real iced tea. George _loves_ it and Dream can’t find it in himself to even imagine the amount of sugar the brunette spoons into his cup. 

(And if Dream’s initial opinion about iced tea changes into something a little more positive than just neutral? Then that’s just for him.)

It’s another round to the marketplace because the blond forgot to buy a goddamn tent. He snatches a pack of tea bags, and a camping kettle along the way — with George’s badge of approval coming from personal tea-drinking experience, internet reviews, or some desperate asking around on forums or Reddit. 

George gets a few more things for himself too, throwing in a bag of chips he liked, a lighter because _forget the matches,_ a working compass among other things. It’s when they’re by the counter that Dream keeps him away from the cashier to the best of abilities, and pays.

” _Wait_. Are you paying for all of this?”

”Uh, yeah,” Dream says, already in the process of giving the cashier his credit card. “Wasn’t it obvious? If it makes you all happy, then yeah. I will.”

The brunette eyes the pack of tea. “...Even if I said I snuck in a second pack of teabags?”

The blond laughs quietly over the sound of the cashier ringing everything up, and nods. It’s worth it to see when George slowly smiles like that. 

“Just said so, idiot.”

And when George laughs, all airy and light — soft and affectionate? Dream makes him get as many sweaters or whatever other expensive bullshit he wants after. He’s sentimental like that.

* * *

“I saw that,” Dream points out, his smile growing bigger as the large distinct print gets covered by George hurriedly zipping his bag shut. “Karl also sent you a set, huh?”

The Briton looks at his bag in the middle of the chaos he made after upturning everything to find the match last night — a failed attempt at hiding it from sight — then at Dream’s smug expression, and sighs once. He brings the cotton shirt out, laying it on top of the pile in the car’s trunk. “ _Dre, my beloved,_ ” he dryly intones. “Yeah. I know. I’ll wear it under my hoodie.”

Dream pauses in the middle of rearranging the canned food and all that, squinting at him, smugness being replaced by suspicion. “And what’s the catch?”

George shovels deeper into the messy pile of clothes that he was supposed to fold, and throws a ball of _something_ soft in Dream’s face. “We’re matching. You wear yours too.”

* * *

  
Overall? It’s a fun day. 

But they still have new places waiting for them on the long road to somewhere, new things waiting to be found and picked up — and by the end of that day, they have to go, because there’s still a long way left to travel.

Which is why Dream’s surprised when George asks him by the city’s pier, staring out into the water by open lights and a quiet sky.

”Can I ask you one last question?” The brunette requests, barely audible and hesitant. He picks on the edge of another oversized sweater he stole from the blond. Dream gets it. It’s cold today — and he can tell from the way George’s grip on the sweater tightens, but it’s not just that. “I promise it’ll be the final time. One last question.”

The water and the sky mirror each other, both clear and letting the clouds lazily roam along the air. The wind presses against his face, fresh and cold. It makes him feel a little more numb.

Dream nods, his heart beating faster in his chest. It’s loud when it shouldn’t be. “One last question,” he quietly agrees, and waits.

George deeply breathes in, and Dream breathes with him too. His heart clogs his throat, his mouth is dry and it’s all he can do to not exhale too loudly in fear of disrupting the silence.

There’s birds that cry in the sky, piercing their silence, yet free to explore the unknown. Someday — _somehow_ — he wishes that they could be like that. Unrestricted. Free. Alive.

”Do you regret coming with me?”

Low, simmering heat runs through his blood as George looks at him. It curls tightly like a coil in his chest. His heart sings with a feeling that makes him soar, and it is _something_ that fills the air he breathes in and falls like nectar from the brunette’s lips. Both of them know what it is — especially when Dream stares back at George, beautiful and ethereal with the sunset and the dusky skies behind him. 

They brush hands once, and palms meet each other again, slotting into place like a perfect piece to a puzzle. Fingers curl around each other, and a thumb brushes gently against knuckles. George softly taps his fingers against Dream’s hand with a beat, their pulses twisting in the same rhythm. It’s different, somehow. Because when they both hold on to each other, there’s a grip that speaks of never wanting to let go.

But it’s a start. They have hands that knew how to hold on tightly, yet set you free at the same time, and Dream thinks it’s enough.

“I never will,” he promises, low and honest. Because he can’t lie to George when every single part of him falls in love with him, and George deserves that much from him. “Not when the world becomes you.”

* * *

  
(Dream figures the tapping thing out later well into the night — after they’ve abandoned town and drove two hours straight without stopping, his Spotify playlist still playing on the radio. _Are you kidding me_ is his first exasperated reaction, but his second one is somewhere between a laugh and his mouth splitting into a smile. 

George had looked at him weirdly when he parked on the side of the road. Weird but fond, then — until Dream tugs on his wrist and settles his fingers on top of George’s fluttering pulse.

 _I_ , he taps. All he knows about Morse Code are rusty, vague letters pulled from his childhood because of sheer spite, and because he thought it was a cool thing. It’s not going to stop him from trying.

He thinks about it for a little bit before his fingers move. George holds his breath, and Dream holds back a smile. It’s _brilliant_ and _smart_ and _sweet._ Affection blooms in his chest, like a flower unfurling and seeking sunlight. _Love,_ he taps.

The brunette leans close enough that they brush foreheads again, and his cheek finds a hand with slender fingers resting on it. Every breath they take is a breath closer.

Dream doesn’t even get to tap _you,_ which is _rude,_ considering he was trying to be sentimental and the other had ruined the moment — but he doesn’t have to. _I love you_ spills from them, unspoken yet present, in the way their lips meet. _I love you_ shows in the moments where the world seems to whisper it over and over again into both of their skins. They drown in love and giddiness, a rush overtaking everything in their veins — overruling every sense of rationality, because the world becomes _him,_ and that’s all that matters to Dream.

“I love you,” Dream says when George pulls him back from deeper waters, like a steady anchor dropped into the deep ocean. He’s too dizzy, and the high hasn’t subdued yet. His blood still feels like fire, and his heart sings with a new melody.

The blond doesn’t know why he says it out loud, but he just feels he should.   
  
“I know. You’re an idiot,” George fondly adds when he turns. 

It’s the first kiss they share — but as they buckle up for an adventure towards somewhere they’ve never known, Dream knows that it won’t be the last one.

Not for a long time.)

**Author's Note:**

> glad to see you made it all the way down here, fellas.
> 
> publishing this as an anon because i am strictly a platonic author and i don’t like having my work associated with ship fics, but if you hv seen my tweets about the title or the premise of a dnf roadtrip au on twitter, you probably know me lol. i’m sorry if this doesn’t live to anybody’s expectations — including mine. i just thought it was a waste if i trashed 6.8k words for nothing, so i’ll just anon this out lol.
> 
> the problem with this fic that i think makes it fall apart is the ooc-ness and the fact that i am absolute shit at writing romance. and also shit at dialogue. i genuinely can’t tell if they’re ooc, so if you notice something about it, please do say so! feedback helps me write a better and more cohesive romance story if god so kindly helps me try again.
> 
> ty <3!


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